


Jealous Gods

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:33:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Austria 2002 from Rubens' perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jealous Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Challenge fic for the f1slash comm.

It could just have been a simple misunderstanding, except that nothing could ever be considered 'simple' as far as Michael was concerned. He had the team by the balls – and why not, when he was four-times WDC? – but still, it rankled. Irvine had not complained. He could happily bend over and take it up the arse as long as he got the glamour, the fame, the money – and, of course, a shot at the title on paper.

Rubens wondered if Eddie had ever been hurt by the 1999 season. To have come so close, to have been within a hair's breadth of the title… and then to have it ripped away by his own team's machiavellian undermining of his position, solely because they wanted Michael to win rather than some louche, loud Irishman.

Rubens wondered, but he had never had the courage to ask. Instead, it was easier to assume that Eddie was complicit in his own destruction. For himself, though, Rubens despised being second-best. If he was seen to be mediocre, then he wanted to be perceived as the lesser to a greater being – and in his eyes, Michael – though good – was not great. Not great like Ayrton had been. Ayrton was Rubens' judge and jury; and certainly Ayrton had never demanded that a team-mate should pull over and let him win "for the sake of the Championship."

But then, compared to Ayrton, Michael was a fractious child, gifted only with the desire for hard graft and not with any touch of genius. While ability on the track might be measured in terms of hundredths of seconds, personal belief could only be measured by time. Rubens remembered the day when he'd asked Ayrton how he would deal with Michael's challenge; and he remembered the reply, given so calmly: _God will provide_.

And so He had, by killing his faithful servant and making of him an immortal that Michael would never, could never, attempt to better… although he tried.

Rubens held close the memory of his friendship with Ayrton until he realised he could trade on it to hurt Michael. Oh yes, Michael liked to claim that he had no interest in motorsport history; that he was scarcely aware of Ferrari's illustrious past; but he could not ignore a legend of his own lifetime – a legend he saw shattered and broken on the same grey track they had both shared.

And so Rubens had fed Michael tiny tidbits of Ayrton's life and driving; and, accustomed to greedily dominating his team-mates in bed as well as on on-track, Michael had been seduced. Not by greatness – Rubens knew what Michael thought of him personally – but by the proximity of greatness: as if, by allowing Rubens to fuck him, so Ayrton might somehow pass into him, too, and fill him with a whisper of divinity.

Except that the God that Ayrton had worshipped was a jealous god. Rubens knew that Michael's hope to appease such a deity was in vain; and when Michael had turned away from him on the back of the fourth title, declaring that he needed no idols – that he was as mighty; that he was a god to his fans – then Rubens knew that the hour of judgement crept nearer.

It had been almost pathetic in its simplicity. The radio crackling: the order given. Rubens moved over almost at the finish line, and let Michael through – and the world went mad.

"It was just a simple misunderstanding," Michael protested helplessly as they climbed the steps to the podium. "I didn't ask them to do this – you must believe me -"

Rubens, through his tears of gratitude to his God, had just smiled.

Now here they were, hoisted onto the podium not by cheers, but by boos and catcalls. Michael had forced him onto the top step in an effort at appeasement, slinging an arm around his shoulder and hugging him tight to shield himself from the crowd's disappointment.

Rubens allowed the manoeuvre, waving to the jury, feeling vindicated for the first time in his career at Ferrari. Regardless of the national anthem and the order of the flags streaming above them, he had won today.


End file.
